


nothing but home

by pinkwinwin



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Bittersweet Ending, Faking Death, Families of Choice, Gun Violence, International Settings, M/M, Undercover Missions, Vignette, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22181389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkwinwin/pseuds/pinkwinwin
Summary: Milan is a beautiful place, if not cold.Milan is a beautiful place, and it is burning.
Relationships: Kim Mingyu/Yoon Jeonghan
Comments: 9
Kudos: 62
Collections: Haggly Holidays!





	nothing but home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovefoolthatsme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovefoolthatsme/gifts).



> Haggly Holidays, everyone! Hope this gets ya in all the best ways, Almay <3
> 
> #

_Let it come_

_'Cause I've got a chance for a sweet, sane life_

_I said I've got a dance and you'll do just fine_

_Well, I've got a plan with forward in my eyes_

— Interpol, “The Heinrich Maneuver”

  
  
  


Life has been a series of loneliness, of violence and cold to a boy like Mingyu with no family and even less of a chance at life. Becoming an orphan kicked him onto the streets of Seoul without a prayer or any money to his name. He took to stealing rations of food from stalls and sleeping beneath the overhang over shop doors at night. 

But then— Minghao.

He was a boy with bright eyes and quick feet the day he picked up Mingyu off the streets, brushed the dirt off his clothes and the tears from his cheeks and told him to run. That there was a place for him in this world, a life he could carve out for himself like he was plucking stars from the sky.

“You talk funny,” Mingyu had told him once at the tender age of eight, words clunky in his mouth. Minghao had looked at him then, eyes narrowed as he slipped an extra _baozi_ in his coat pocket one wintery morning. They were holed up in some safe house, where men and women who walked in near-silence constantly filtered in and out of. There were few familiar faces in a place like this, which is why Mingyu stuck to Minghao like a lifeline. Perhaps in some way he was. 

“I’m not from here,” he had replied, and it had made sense to Mingyu. “We’re going back home soon anyway, you’ll see what it’s like there.”

And there began Mingyu’s life in China, navigating a language much like Minghao was forced to do when he was painfully young. Training became easier then, the group teaching both boys how to slip in and out of rooms unnoticed. Taught them how people looked when they lied, how they revealed their secrets in the moments most vulnerable. 

Minghao had told him the same thing the pseudo family did, that they would someday work for a bigger cause. That this world was not built for boys like them so they had to create their name themselves. Throw away aliases and lives like they were worn-out shoes and not the very essence of who they were as a person. 

Mingyu is no longer Kim Mingyu. He is a number, he in an agent, he is a thousand different names that never seem to fit him in the way he would like them to.

But still— Minghao.

He is there through moments of awkward gangly limbs growing into wiry muscle, of sneaking into warehouses for intel and shaky guns pressed into the palm of Mingyu’s hand. He teaches Mingyu to listen for his signal, to watch for danger. To know that when Minghao starts to run, Mingyu should follow suit. He is everything boyish and serious rolled up into cartilage and bone. He is Mingyu’s family, his brother in all sense but that of blood. For that he is ever thankful, to know he has a person no matter where he is in this dark and desolated world.

  
  
To Minghao, Mingyu is a house. That is to say that he helped build the foundation, wrote his name in ink before sealing it away in the walls. He grew up here, saw the floors of Mingyu’s heart shift in the light of the seasons. Held him in the doorframes during sleepless nights, carried him down the stairs when Mingyu’s legs were too weak to support their own weight.

  
  
To Minghao, Junhui is a home— and it takes Mingyu far too many years to learn there’s a difference.

✗ ✗ ✗

Junhui comes like rain, like the gunpowder lifting into the air and seeping into your lungs after firing a pistol. That is not to say that he is _bad_ — he is wonderful, he brights about a lightness in Minghao that until then Mingyu had never seen. It is gentle to be loved, to walk this Earth and know there is someone out there who thinks your name is God and your voice is the sweetest song.

There is no ounce of jealousy in Mingyu, for he loves Minghao like a brother. He _is_ his brother, but over time he feels like an outsider in his own family.

But then— _Jeonghan._

He is the boy with blackened hair that reminds Mingyu of soot, shaved harshly against one side of his skull and hanging low on the opposite of his face. It’s the jewelry littering his ears, studs lining his lobe and a hoop hanging from the top of his ear. He is fast enough but what really keeps Jeonghan moving is his charm, it’s the way he can get intel merely from the tilt of the head and his lips tugging into a smile. 

Mingyu finds him by chance during a job in Berlin when he’s eighteen and feels like he could take on the world. He sees him as Mingyu is scouting a target’s apartment complex, placing wire taps in the phone and internet lines before slipping out the front door quietly.

“You’re awfully big to be so quiet,” a voice had said then, smooth as silk and twice as amused. Mingyu turned to see him, leaning against the wall so casually that Mingyu was shocked that he missed him at all.

“Who are you?” Mingyu had asked, already feeling for his gun. Jeonghan had laughed at him, eyes lit up with something dangerous.

“Well, _you’re_ Kim Mingyu,” he said, pushing off the wall and walking past him and down the hall. “And I’ve had my eye on you for a while now.”

The fact is strange to say the least, because Mingyu is certain he’d remember seeing a face like Jeonghan’s. He would remember that hair, the way he smirked, the way his jewelry caught the light as he moved.

Most of all, he would remember the way he felt when he walked out of a room.

  
  


✗ ✗ ✗

“You talk like someone in love,” Junhui says, smiling as he rests one hand on the steering wheel. They’re peeling through the streets of London, dodging pedestrians as they make their way to the South end of the city. 

“I’m not in love,” Mingyu clarifies, moving his elbow as it sits leaning against the doorframe. “You seem to be, though.”

Junhui smiles at this, so natural. It lights up his face, and Mingyu wonders if this is what it’s like, to find the person that makes walking through the door at the end of the day something to look forward to instead of an inevitable part of life. 

“Minghao is,” Junhui starts, flicking on the blinker and turning onto a quieter street. Beyond the window the sky is dark, glowing amber every so often with the light. It dances across Junhui’s face, makes him look pure if only for a moment. “Minghao is home.”

Mingyu rests his head against the glass at this, studies Junhui’s face. “I had a feeling you'd say that."

And Mingyu wonders what it's like, to love so completely. He thinks of Minghao but he knows that will always be familial, he thinks of Junhui more as a friend. This life has not given Mingyu someone to compliment so well, but then he considers—

Jeonghan.

His hair is blonde now, pulled harshly into a ponytail most nights he sees him. Mingyu could smell his cologne as he bent down and whispered in his ear on a rooftop in Moscow, lips brushing against his skin and fingers playing with his hair.

"You don't fit in very well here, darling," Jeonghan had purred, fingers toying with a strand of Mingyu's chocolate brown locks. He wants to lean into the touch but his arms are placed precariously on the sniper in front of him.

Sometimes a weapon is not a gun, though. Jeonghan leans down to kiss the skin of Mingyu's throat, knowing there's nothing he can do to stop him in this moment. A laugh tickles against his skin, and it feels like a memory Mingyu will store in his mind for the rest of his life. 

✗ ✗ ✗

  
Milan is a beautiful place, if not cold.

Not in the weather or the sunshine, that lays against Mingyu’s skin in a way that’s almost uncomfortable. It drapes him in sunlight even when he feels there’s a surrounding cloud of darkness around him. Minghao hasn’t asked him for help with a job in a year and a half, and something itches just under his collar at the prospect that this is something serious.

It’s a simple job, which makes Mingyu’s thoughts stir dangerously. Just a small weapons transfer, Junhui accompanying them. In hindsight, Mingyu doesn’t even know why he’s there since he’s essentially useless. By the time he’s given the hotel room number, Junhui is there to open the door with a serious look on his face.

“Already?” Mingyu asks him, which gives him a nod as an answer. He pushes through the door and closes it behind him, eyeing the black bags already on the floor. Ammunition rounds are easy to spot from here, all laid out as if they’ve been counted. Knowing Junhui they have, his dedication to get things right the first time and his reputation as the best spy in the country. 

Minghao crosses his legs as he sits in the chair, hands folded in his lap and looking to Junhui from his place by the bed. Mingyu can see the tattoo on his ankle, slanted _M_ staring back at him. Black ink on tanned skin, a reminder always. 

Mingyu remembers the day they got it, adrenaline high and wild-blown faces as they ducked into a tattoo shop in Budapest. Newly thirteen and on the heels of an important mission, Mingyu watched with wide eyes as the ink tinted his skin, pretty brow furrowed in pain as the needle went over bone. And when they were both finished, they sat on the rooftop of the hotel they were staying at, sky kissed with the orange glow of the setting sun.

“Because I’m the runner,” Minghao had said quietly, brushing his thumb against the covered spot with a contemplative look on his face. He looks up, pushing the hair away from Mingyu’s face. “And you’re the listener.” 

“What if something happens to you?” Mingyu had asked then, so serious. Minghao had just scrunched up his nose, playfulness in his eyes.

“If I’m gone, you’ve been dead for weeks.”

And twelve years and countless jobs later, Mingyu supposes that’s true. He sits in the chair pulled up by the window, staring at the world outside the hotel room. He can hear Junhui shuffle across the room, lean down to kiss Minghao softly. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels like peeking at the back of a novel and spoiling the ending for yourself, so Mingyu tries to ignore it.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” Junhui’s low voice says, and the door clicks shut when he leaves. Minghao is by his side before he can let out a breath. 

“Stop being so moody,” Minghao murmurs, prying Mingyu’s hand away from his face. He pulls it to his lips, kissing the center of his palm. Mingyu looks up to see Minghao’s eyes flutter shut, dark lashes tickling the skin. It’s intimate in a way that Mingyu wants to look away but he can’t, instead he stares at the only living family he has, embraced in the golden light of the room.

Mingyu feels like this is a goodbye.

✗ ✗ ✗

Milan is a beautiful place, and it is burning.

Burning Mingyu's retinas with its endless lights. Burning his skin with the heat of the sun, and the warmth of the man's body pressed up against him as they lay fully-clothed on a hotel bed. They haven’t been in the same place for work in months now. To Mingyu, it feels like years.

“You didn’t tell me what you were here for,” Mingyu says, reaching out to brush the hair out of Jeonghan’s eyes. It’s longer now, pale blonde and reaching down to his shoulders. It feels heavenly to touch, and Mingyu never wants to let go.

Jeonghan answers him in Russian, laughing a little when Mingyu rolls his eyes in response. “I didn’t know you knew Russian,” Mingyu replied, stroking his hair and cupping his cheek.

“I know a lot of things,” Jeonghan replies, switching back to Korean. “When are you taking me to the French countryside again?”

  
  
Mingyu laughs, pulling Jeonghan down to kiss him. It’s slow, languid, like they have all the time in the world instead of just this one night. When they pull away, Mingyu buries his nose against Jeonghan’s neck and breaths in the scent of his cologne. “I’ll buy you a house there,” Mingyu whispers. “We can leave this all behind.”

Jeonghan hums, pulling away just enough to really look at him. He holds Mingyu's head, brushes his thumb just behind his ear fondly. His lips quip up in amusement when he feels raised skin. "What's this?"

Mingyu hums. "A reminder."

Jeonghan feels over the tattoo, the touched-up _M_ in serif font just behind his right ear. A dedication to Minghao that Mingyu will continue to touch up long after the man is gone from his life. Like keeping a house haunted, like keeping the lights on in hopes that someone living will walk through its doors.

Something in Jeonghan’s face falls, just a little. In the blink of an eye, it’s gone. Jeonghan slots his body between Mingyu’s legs and leans down, kissing him fully. His hands slide Mingyu’s shirt up, breaking the kiss just enough to pull it off his body. 

It’s nearly sunrise when they finally pull away from each other, the haze of sex still clouding Mingyu’s mind. His hands search for Jeonghan’s frame at the other end of the mattress, blinking several times until he can make out the shape of him sitting on the edge of the bed.

“You’re leaving,” Mingyu states plainly, voice hoarse. Jeonghan turns his head, hair a curtain of silk. He’s putting his earrings back on, black dangling pieces that look like daggers.

“We’ll meet in the countryside,” Jeonghan whispers, eyes not leaving Mingyu. It’s like he wants to remember his face, his bare chest as he lays half beneath the covers. He reaches out to press his hand to Mingyu’s cheek for a moment, thumb brushing against his cheekbone.

Mingyu leans into the touch, leans into the kiss that follows— and the face Jeonghan makes when they part almost hurts. “You never told me what they call you nowadays,” he whispers.

Jeonghan laughs, hallow and bare. Mingyu hears it even after he walks out the door. “Laurent.”

✗ ✗ ✗

Sometimes, in the spy world, you need to kill your friends— Mingyu is extremely aware of this.

  
  
He has taken the life of several rogue agents, of people who knew too much. People who called him friend, bleeding out on the pavement or in his arms before he disappears into the darkness. He knows this is a fact of life, of always living on the edge of a knife and wondering which way you’ll end up tilting towards.

He just never expected it to be family.

It hurts, it _hurts_ , the way Minghao is looking at him. Copenhagen is beautiful, painting him in lights from the street. Gold and green and red dance across Minghao’s anguished face, and even in the dark Mingyu can see the pain etched into his features. 

“This was a long time coming,” Mingyu says, just loud enough to be heard from a distance. There’s nobody in this part of the city, but he knows the people important enough are watching. They always are.

“Can you blame me?” Minghao asks, palms open and facing him as they rest at the side of his body. “For falling in love.”

  
  
Mingyu takes a breath, clicking the safety off. His hands still shake when he points the weapon at Minghao, despite holding a gun most of his life. Mingyu’s last words come out strained, like he was fighting to keep them to himself.

“You know people like us can’t have that.”

As Mingyu aims the pistol at Minghao from across the square, he realizes two things:

  1. He needs to aim exactly 2cm above Minghao’s shirt pocket to get a clean shot to his heart. Any lower and it will shatter his ribcage, and higher and he’ll bleed out long and slow. The pistol in his hands has a five pound trigger pull weight and only 7 rounds inside of it, despite the heaviness in his hands.



2\. Love and loss look exactly the same when staring down the barrel of a gun.

The shot hits hard, and whether from impact or the devastation of being shot by your brother, Minghao crumples to the ground. Mingyu swears, tucking the pistol back into his waistband and walking across the square. He drags Minghao’s body to the waiting car, laying him in the trunk before closing it over his bleeding frame.

The steering wheel feels like hot coal in Mingyu’s hand as he drives, like a warning of something bigger to come. He makes it four blocks before the back seat is kicked out and a familiar body crawls through the opening.

“Do you know how fucking _hard_ ,” Minghao starts, dark hair hanging in his eyes as he stares down at his chest. “It is to get fake blood out of Givenchy.”

Mingyu laughs, hallow and pained. “I’ll get it dry cleaned for you.”

  
  
Both of them know this is a lie. They know it when Minghao cups the back of Mingyu’s neck with his hand as he drives. Thumbing over the tattoo behind his ear.

“You were always a good runner,” Minghao said into the darkness of the vehicle. Mingyu tries to swallow down a sob, clenches the steering wheel tighter.

The waterways are mostly obscured this part of the city. They still park for fifteen minutes before slipping out, Mingyu carrying Minghao’s body for show. The walk down the stairs and dock is awkward, but they hold their position until they’re out of the sight of the street, when Minghao can walk on his own.

Junhui is waiting in the boat, shoulders shrugged up to bat away the cold from nipping at his skin. He reaches out with two hands to help Minghao into the boat, then reaches out to squeeze Mingyu’s arm when he’s done.

“Thank you,” Junhui whispers, and Mingyu says it back. He finds that he means it.

Minghao takes his time, reaching out to take Mingyu’s hand. He turns it, kisses the center of his palm. His eyes flutter shut, and Mingyu is hit with a sense of nostalgia.

“You always were the listener,” Mingyu says quietly. “Listen for me. Even if it takes years.”

  
  
Minghao laughs, and it sounds like a cry. “Always.” And then he looks at Mingyu, really looks at him, while still holding his hand like delicate glass. “I love you.”

  
  
And Mingyu says it back— and he finds that he always meant it.

  
  


✗ ✗ ✗

St. Paul De Vence in May is stunning, Mingyu couldn’t properly explain it even if he tried. Brick cottages, quiet streets, a place where nobody knows who he is or what he’s done in life.

The cottage is quiet, purchased quietly with a wave of a stack of bills. Mingyu is thankful that nobody bats an eye here. He takes two weeks to clean it up on his own, sunlight pouring through the open windows in the morning. He picks white sheets for the bed, yellow flowers in the windowsill, a fancy coffee machine in the kitchen.

  
  
He sits at the table, warm sun heating the floorboards beneath his feet. He can see the stretch of houses dotted along the green hill when he looks out the window. Beyond that, the countryside beckons him to visit.

A pair of arms wrap around his shoulders, hands snaking down his chest. A pair of lips kiss the skin of his neck.

“We really made it,” Jeonghan whispers. His newly dyed dark hair is cropped shorter than he’s had it in years. Still, it smells like strawberries.

“I told you we’d meet out here someday,” Mingyu whispers. Thinks of the brother he still hasn’t found, thinks of the way Jeonghan feels when they are free to sleep next to each other at night. He reaches up to thumb across one of Jeonghan’s hands, warmth seeping into his chest.

“What should I call you now?” Jeonghan asks, pulling away to look at him with sparkling eyes. It’s a joke about aliases, something Jeonghan always took a sense of pride in. The answer comes easy.

“Mingyu,” he replies. “Kim Mingyu.” 

And when he leans down to kiss Mingyu, he tastes nothing but _home._


End file.
